Mayhem & Mistletoe
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Christmas Eve and Mummy Holmes decides to persuade her youngest to get a move on about a certain young pathologist, by explaining how she got a move on about a certain young engineer... AKA The Story of How Mummy and Daddy Holmes met, and Why It Was Awesome...
1. Chapter 1

_This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Merry Christmas!_

 **CHAPTER ONE: BLAME IT ON THE BAILEYS**

In retrospect, it occurs to Sherlock that, of course, he should have seen this coming.

 _After all, if anyone had experience with his mother and her choice of Christmas tipple, it was him._

But Molly had been so earnest in her questions regarding what to get his mother, and so eager to please during this, her first Christmas dinner with his family, that he had caved and told her exactly what to buy. It would be the perfect way to ingratiate herself, he had said- As If, given everything that she had heard about Molly over the years, Mummy wasn't prepared to adore her anyway. (She had, after all, saved Sherlock's life more than once, and she was, it seemed apparent, the first woman about whom Sherlock had been serious in quite some time).

And so, Molly had arrived at the Holmes' family cottage with the largest bottle of Baileys she could get her hands on and handed it over to Mummy post haste.

She had stammered and blushed and looked adorable and both his parents had beamed at him until he was tempted to tell them off. (Of course he hadn't; Molly was nervous enough already without his adding to her doubts).

And so it had come to pass that Sherlock Holmes, proper genius and world's only consulting detective, has ended up sitting at the Christmas table, listening to his mother and father get sloshed on Baileys and trying desperately to pretend he doesn't notice their… insinuations, regarding he and Molly.

"Better get a move on, darling," Mummy is smiling, patting his hand. (Molly is currently in the loo, and so she's feeling brave). "You're not getting any younger, and that little girl might recover her senses at any moment and bolt-

Best to get a lock on her,there's a good boy."

Sherlock frowns, about to bite out a retort, but as he does so he hears Molly's voice from the door. "Best to get a lock on who?" She asks, her voice trying for light but just a touch tinged with wariness.

Sherlock shoots his mother a look and she has the good grace to look abashed.

He opens his mouth to answer, but- "Better get a lock on a good woman," Daddy Holmes says abruptly, trying to break the tension. "That's what I said when I asked my Lexie to marry me."

At his son's alarmed look (somewhere between horrified and, well, horrified, because good God, Daddy, _mentioning_ _ **marriage**_ _?_ ), Holmes Snr. hastens to add, "We were, um, we were having a chat about how I met Sherlock's mother." As he speaks, his voice becomes more confident, whatever lie he's about to tell solidifying in his brain. _Sherlock doubts this is a good sign_. "It's a Christmas tradition, you see," Daddy continues, something which causes his younger son to nearly choke on his pheasant because it bloody well isn't and he has no desire for it to become one-

But Molly smiles shyly, doing that thing she does with her dimples and her starry brown eyes, and sits down beside Sherlock.

Her ankle brushes his and, to his consternation, he feels a jolt of electricity singe up his leg.

Suddenly he doesn't mind so much, that his parents are talking utter shite.

"So this is something you do every year?" Molly asks and both the Holmeses nod eagerly.

"Oh yes," Mummy says. "We tell it every Christmas." She throws a fond look at Daddy. "It's such a lovely story, you know," she continues, leaning into Molly confidentially. "And I must admit, I come out of it very well."

Molly laughs, throwing a look at Sherlock, and despite himself, he smiles. "Do you mind me hearing it?" She asks and again, despite himself, Sherlock shakes his head.

"Of course not, Molly," he says and when she beams at him this time, he feels the tips of his ears turn pink.

He catches the knowing looks his parents shoot one another and manfully resists the urge to stick out his tongue.

"Well that's settled then!" Mummy says, slapping the table and taking another fortifying sip of her Baileys. She gestures grandly to the kitchen. "Picture the scene," she says, "Christmas Eve in the MI6 building, 1961! The skirts are short, the hair is long, and a lone, embattled Junior Agent is sitting at the phones, the only person left in the building…"

 _Oh bloody Hell,_ Sherlock thinks as Molly claps delightedly. _Here we bloody go…_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and n infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Merry Christmas!_

 **CHAPTER TWO: SOHO CALLING**

 _MI6 Headquarters,_

 _The Circus,_

 _December 24th, 1961_

This place is like a tomb, Lexie thinks despondently.

They only bloody left me here because they all wanted to go home.

And Alexandra "Lexie," Doyle, first female M16 field agent in 12 years and finest shot in her class, puts her feet up on her boss's desk. Just for a moment, contemplates setting fire to her employer's headquarters. (She also contemplates curling up in the cloak room and sleeping her shift away with a bottle of mulled wine and some mince pies.) But, she reminds herself sternly, were she to do that then the complaints of that pillock Jim Bond and every one of his compatriots would be proved true, and her somewhat tenuous place in The Circus' personnel would be compromised. She might even have to-she shudders- go back to the typing pool, and if that didn't kill what was left of her will to live then nothing would.

So no, she tells herself bracingly, you _will_ man the phones tonight.

Plenty of the people you don't detest are at home with their families right now because you're here: That's the sort of thing you should be proud of.

And, thus resolved, she nods to herself. Pulls out the small flagon of whisky she keeps in her hip flask and takes a sip. She sets the hip flask down beside her, hunting around to find the pack of mince pies which she suspects her boss has been stashing in his office and as she does, she suddenly hears The Phone go off. The big red one which sits on M's desk and which nobody outside of the Circus is supposed to have access to.

 _Ring, ring!_ It goes, but it might as well be screeching, so loud is it.

Lexie knows she's not supposed to answer it, and yet-

 _Ring, ri-_ "Code?" The young agent asks crisply, deepening her voice to make herself sound older.

If Bond and his idiot friends are having some fun at her expense then she'll be teased, but better that that her sounding rattled.

"Is that, is that The Circus?" A young man's voice sounds on the other end of the line, panting. His accent is rolling, his voice deep, and he sounds absolutely scared out of his wits.

Lexie refuses to be moved.

"Code?" She snaps again. "Code or I hang up-"

"Please!" The voice says. "Please, my name is Sigur Holmes and I'm being held somewhere in Soho. I'm- You can verify my identity with the current quarter master, he'll be happy to tell you who I am-"

"And what do you want from me, Mr. Holmes?" Lexie snaps, irritated by his continued lack of a code, as well by the sneaking suspicion that he's probably pulling her leg.

"I'm in a- at least, I think I'm in a club in Soho. It's called The Red Room. Ask at the door for Martha, she'll help you-" There's yelling in the background, men's voices, and then the distinct sound of someone being set upon.

Lexie frowns into the receiver.

"White rabbit," she hears Holmes' voice yell. "White rabbit!" And then the line goes dead.

She's left staring down at the phone in consternation.

For a moment she considers whether she's being played or not- _bloody Jim Bond and his Neanderthal cronies_ \- but then it occurs to her that, played or not, she now has a legitimate excuse to leave the Circus and get some air. White Rabbit is even an acceptable code word to ask for help, albeit one which expired a couple of days ago.

"It could be legitimate," she tells herself. "And I could really do with stretching my legs, even if it's only as far as the tube."

And so, her mind made up she fetches her coat. Packs away her various concealed firearms and reapplies her lippy, before heading outside. The lights of London's twinkle, christmas music riding on the air as she strides down towards the Embankment, looking stern of mien and fabulous of apparel-

" _Mummy!"_ Sherlock barks, looking outraged.

"Well, I was," Lexie defends herself. "We both know you got your looks- and your brains, God help you- from me!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, about to bark a retort, but he's stopped by the lovely smile on Molly's face. He's stopped by the way she's looking at him. "Your mother's right," she says, her cheeks pinking becomingly. "You do get your looks from her."

Feeling both delighted and oddly harried by the warm glow these words bring to his chest, Sherlock gestures for Mummy to carry on.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And may I give a shout out to all who have read and reviewed: thank you!

 **CHAPTER THREE: THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR**

Having ascertained- thanks to a hasty call to the current Quartermaster from a pay-phone- that this Sigur Holmes was indeed in his employ, and had indeed not been seen in more than 24 hours, Lexie grabs a taxi and tells the driver to take her to The Red Room in Soho.

He knows where it is: Apparently, it's famous.

 _Apparently, Lexie had also underestimated how little she wanted to be stuck in The Circus tonight._

"Auditioning, are you?" The cabbie leers at her in his mirror, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Lexie rolls her eyes. "On her Majesty's business, my good man," she answers tersely.

While she is aware that she ought not to shoot civilians, she can't help but grip her snub-nosed little revolver, secreted safely in her purse.

The cabbie gives her an exaggerated pout. "Tits like those don't belong on a copper," he sniffs. "If you ask me-"

"I didn't." Lexie cocks an eyebrow at him. "Boots like these, however," - and she gestures to her exquisite new leather knee-highs- "may well belong lodged somewhere to the left of your rectum, dear, should you keep me waiting." She draws on every ounce of posh, private school educated diction and gestures imperiously. "Red Room. Now.

Get me there in less than half an hour and there's a good tip in it for you."

And with that she leans back in the seat and watches the lights of London go by, already planning her next move-

* * *

"Wait," Sherlock interrupts. "Wait. Are you telling me that the British government trusted _you_ to carry a revolver?"

He looks at his mother- the woman who could burn water- in horror and the older woman gives him a supremely smug smile.

"Will," she says serenely, "however did you think Myc learned? And your father?" She shoots a wink at Molly, patting his hand indulgently. "I know you like to think that you and John invented adventure, darling, but I'm afraid you're more a chip off the old block than a black sheep of the family- In this regard, at least." She leans into Molly and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "He is, alas, something of a late bloomer romantically, something I assure you he certainly doesn't get from my side of the family-" She frowns- "or, come to think of it, his father's-"

The tips of Sherlock's ears turn puce.

It is made worse by how obviously Molly is trying not to smile.

"Weren't you telling a story?" He asks tartly, to which his mother merely beams and mouths _we'll talk later_ to Molly.

 _No you bloody won't,_ Sherlock mouths back.

"I _was_ telling a story, dear-heart," Mummy points out, voice angelic, "until I was rather rudely interrupted by one of my children-" She smiles triumphantly. "Perhaps, if you wish me to continue, you should curtail your tendency to comment- Hmm?"

And beneath Sherlock's mutinous glower- and Molly's traitorous giggle- she returns to 1961.

* * *

By the time they get to The Red Room, the cabbie's face has turned woefully sour.

Were Lexie the sort of woman who cared about that sort of thing she would feel terrible, but alas, she is not and so she merely pays the fair, tips him handsomely and then exits his car with her usual insouciant ease.

She shoots him an airy wave and he flips her the finger as he pulls off.

Lexie narrows her eyes, memorizing his plate number, and decides that tomorrow he is going to get a visit from the Inland Revenue. (Needless to say, it will not be a visit which he enjoys, but then given how much joy he spreads, perhaps that is just).

That decided, she straightens her skirt and coat and moves towards the corner on which The Red Room is situated. The streets are alive with men in suits, hats pulled down against the rain and curious eyes darting at each bar and alleyway they pass. Girls in short skirts and high heels primp and preen in doorways, sheltering from the drizzle and giving them the eye- _They stay warily clear of Lexie, perhaps sensing that she's not here for fun._

Like many clubs in this part of Soho, The Red Room lies down some decidedly dodgy-looking stairs, a neon model of a dancing girl flashing gaudily above the entrance, the prices of the different acts advertised on tatty-looking bits of cardboard as Lexie descends-

 _My,_ she thinks sarcastically, _but life as an agent is glamorous…_

At the bottom of the stairs she finds a beaded curtain, and behind it there's a pretty, dark-haired young woman with massive brown eyes and a pixie-ish short haircut; she's wearing a pair of knickers, a pair of sparkling nipple tassels beneath a transparent babydoll nightie, and (hidden by the desk at which she sits) a pair of industrial-looking slippers and socks with come right up to her knees.

She also has a shot-gun resting in her lap. A large one.

Lexie's opinion of her goes up substantially.

"Three and five in, ducks," the girl says, her voice bored.

She doesn't look up.

Lexie frowns, realizing that she doesn't have that much in her purse after taking the cab here.

"I'm terribly sorry," she says, "but I'm not here to visit-"

The girl doesn't look up from her novel, some lurid thing with a picture of two women kissing on the cover.

"Three and six," she repeats, "everyone pays in, unless you're a guest, which I happen to know you're not."

And she smiles to herself, eyes never leaving her book.

Inspiration hits. "I'm here to see Martha," Lexie announces grandly. "A friend of mine said to look in on her- his name is Sigur. Sigur H-"

She doesn't even get to finish the word before the girl is up from behind her desk, one hand gripping her elbow. "Shut up!" She hisses, looking around in worry. "Bloody hell, I thought you secret agents were supposed to be clever!"

Lexie puts it together. Cocks an eyebrow. "Martha, I presume?" She says and the other woman sniffs. Cocks an eyebrow right back.

"And what about it?" She asks tartly. "You're going to help get poor Siggie out of here, are you?"

 _Poor Siggie?_ Lexie only barely manages to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Of course I am," she says instead, her voice managing to sound a great deal more confident than she feels. "I just need to find out where they're keeping him- Have you any idea about that?"

Martha snorts. "Of course I know where he is, ducks," she says, "but you can hardly sidle in there and get him, not with Tommy The Pigeon and Stick Dunne watching him-"

Martha's about to iterate what other difficulties lie between Lexie and her target, but before she can a shot sounds sharply, and suddenly both women's nights get a whole lot worse.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended._

 **THE STICK, THE TARGET AND THE APHRODITE OF CROUCH END**

As soon as the shot rings out, both Lexie and Martha throw themselves to the floor.

The house lights flicker out as the club dissolves into screams, leaving she and the other woman awash in neon.

Swearing like a trooper, Martha drags herself towards her shotgun and huddles behind her desk, frantically scrabbling in its shelves for a box of what turns out to be bullets. When she finds said box, she drops it, hissing a fresh string of curses as the bullets scatter everywhere. Fortunately for her, however, Lexie- having at least _trained_ for being under fire- manages to grab a handful and stuff them into her pockets. She then picks out two from the floor and gestures impatiently for Martha to hand her the weapon. The younger woman does so, and with the ease borne of practice Lexie reloads, training it towards the ground and peeping out from behind the desk-

She's greeted by a swarm of legs, some trouser-clad, some bare, as the customers and dancers vacate The Red Room post haste.

Once the worst of the initial exodus slows, Lexie snakes out from behind the desk and starts towards the club proper, Martha at her heels.

She turns to look at the other woman, but Martha merely scoffs. "Do _you_ know where they're holding Siggie?" She asks tartly and at this Lexie must shake her head. Martha looks smug. "Thought so," she says. "Follow me."

And, hugging the walls, she leads Lexie out of the club proper, where three men in suits (the men who were shooting?) are yelling at each other and exchanging insults.

Lexie tight at her heels, she darts through the fire exit, into a corridor with doors off it which must act as the club's backstage, judging by the amount of sequined costumes left lying around it.

Martha gestures to a battered door at the end of the corridor, inlaid with frosted glass and illuminated by dirty, pale lamplight.

Lexie can just see two dark shadows against the glass, presumably the people guarding her target.

"Siggie's in there," Martha whispers. "I'd go in, but I'm not exactly in fighting form-" she gestures to her stocking-clad feet, one of which, Lexie belatedly realizes, is bound up. "Occupational hazard," Martha says when she sees her looking. "Damaged tendon from doing the bloody Aphrodite of Crouch End turn for Olga. You'd think I'd have more sense, at my age."

She shakes her head, tutting, and despite herself, Lexie has to smile.

"But you go in there," she continues. "And get our boy- I promised him I'd get him out. Tommy the Pigeon has a glass jaw, he'll be easy. The other one- he has a scar on his face?- That's Stick Dunne. He's the one to worry about. If you have him in your sights then don't hesitate- He's a nasty piece of work, that one."

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, and Lexie can't help but feel that there's more to that story than Martha's saying.

Nevertheless, she nods, grateful. _Martha and Stick Dunne is a story for another time, perhaps._

"I'll do my best," she says. A thought occurs. "You'll be alright getting out of here, with that foot?"

Martha grins. "Get out?" She says. "Oh no. Ernest Hudson will find me huddling behind that desk, guarding his night's takings, like the loyal girl I am." Her grin turns wicked. "I'll be fine, dear. Just get that yourself and Sig out of here."

And without another word she turns and starts walking back the way she came- Lexie sees the slight limp, now that she's looking for it. Just before she leaves the corridor she shoots Lexie another grin and smashes her hand into the glass fire alarm at the end of the corridor, setting off the building's sprinklers and drenching Lexie- and everything else-in water.

The sprinklers must be throughout the building, because a stream of swearing erupts from the door at the end of the corridor, and a small, hunched-looking man (Tommy the Pigeon?) sticks his head out, scanning the corridor suspiciously. Clocks Lexie.

 _Show time,_ she thinks.

Holding the shotgun out of his sight, Lexie adopts her best Damsel in Distress voice.

"Oh God," she wails, "Oh God, what on earth is happening?!" She lets her lip tremble, makes sure to do the whole heaving bosom bit too, which is infinitely easier now she's drenched to her skin.

Tommy the Pigeon frowns at her. Steps fully out of the room, closing the door behind him. "You alright there, darlin'?" He asks.

His leer could peel the paint from the walls. Lexie suspects her sense of nausea could do likewise.

She shakes her head however, doing her best to look petrified.

 _Mummy always did say I was made for the stage…_

"Can you help me?" She asks Tommy piteously. "I'd be ever so grateful, really, if you could help me…"

And she lowers her head, does her best to bat her eyelashes despite how difficult that is when you're being showered by a sprinkler system. Like the idiot he clearly is, Tommy starts towards her, his gait easy and rolling- It clearly hasn't occurred to him that he's in danger in the slightest. _Which just goes to show that in practice, evolution is not without its problems._

"Of course I can help you, sweetheart," he's saying. He's nearly to her by now. "But you know you'd have to do something for me, don't you?"

Lexie nods and he reaches for her. He's by her side now. "What say I turn you around," he says, "and get you out of here, and we discuss how you might be able to work off your de-"

Which is as far as he gets, because before he can say anything even more asinine, Lexie takes the shotgun and, being sure to put her full weight into it, swings it at that glass jaw of his, knocking his head back with a crack, an act which (helpfully) smacks the back of his skull into the wall beside him and renders him unconscious. Stepping over him she holds up with shotgun and skulks forward- _No doubt Stick Dunne will be popping out any minute to see what's keeping his friend-_

And as if summoned by that thought, a hulking mass of a man exits the room at the end of the corridor.

She hears a muffled call behind him, sees the man hiss, "Sharrup!" Into the room before stepping outside.

Unerringly, his eyes find the unconscious form of his compatriot, lying on the floor and breathing fitfully, and immediately his gaze goes to Lexie, rage contorting his features as he puts together what has happened a great deal quicker than Tommy The Pigeon probably would have done-

It's instinct: Lexie raises the shotgun. Takes aim. Fires.

The door jam beside Stick explodes in a shower of splinters but despite her best attempt the shot goes wide.

With a snarl of rage Stick starts forward, coming right at her, his eyes as blazing as the devil's while she raises her weapon and pulls the trigger once more-

Only for Stick to be tackled to the ground when a figure explodes, crablike because he is tied to a chair, through the door behind him.

The figure gives a savage war cry which sounds uncannily like, "eeuuurrgghhh!"

This figure smashes into Stick's back, knocking him sideways, pinning him there as Lexie moves forward. As she nears, she sees red blooming on this Newcomer-Tied-To-A-Chair's clothes and she realizes her second shot must have hit him instead of her target-

Gritting her teeth, she reloads. Fires again.

This time she doesn't miss, this time she gets Stick square in the shoulder, something which causes even more swearing and the sort of vows of revenge which belong in a penny dreadful. Lexie says nothing, merely leans down and starts untying the man who had a)saved her life and b) just been shot by her-

"Mr Holmes, I presume," she says, cocking an eyebrow.

"And you're the White Rabbit," Holmes answers. "Jolly Good. Thanks for rescuing me- But perhaps you could call an ambulance?"

And then, whether it's worry or blood loss or sheer adrenaline, he passes out.

This is, perhaps, fortunate, because Lexie hears yet more gunfire punctuate the air.

"Well bugger," Lexie mutters under her breath. "This just got more difficult-"

* * *

"I second that emotion," Sherlock adds. Molly glowers at him. "I mean, carry on, Mummy…"

So she does.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: this fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This one took a while to finish- damn you, RL!- but I hope you enjoy it. And thanks, as always to everyone who has read and reviewed. Enjoy!_

 **CHAPTER FIVE: HOLDING OUT FOR A HEROINE**

In the end, Lexie supposes it's not so bad as it could have been.

After all, the gunshots turn out to be courtesy of one Jim Bond and three of his cronies, who were busy getting pissed off their skulls (to use a technical term) in the club two doors down. They saw the Red Room's mass exodus and came to investigate.

 _And by "investigate,"_ Lexie muses sourly, _they meant make everything a thousand times more complicated._

 _They're good at that._

Because now, not only has she to see to the young man she's rescued and accidentally shot, she has to do it while navigating the great 007's notorious (and drunken) ego.

 _Tap-dancing up Kilimanjaro would be easier,_ she thinks distastefully.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Legs?" Bond inquires with mock solicitousness. (That's what he always calls her, Legs, and Lexie can't help but think that this really isn't the time to bring up how asinine it is. Rather, she elbows the prone Stick Dunne, who had chosen this moment to attempt an escape.

 _It makes her feel a great deal better.)_

"We've a man down," she snaps. She glares from Bond to his two drunken compatriots, who are now tittering and elbowing one another in the ribs. They have their- _For the love of god, they have their firearms tucked into their trousers! Which means someone's bollocks probably aren't going to last the night._

(It may also make Bond's nickname amongst the typing pool, No Bollocks Bond, rather more apropos.

 _This thought makes Lexie feel a great deal better.)_

"This is one of the Quartermaster's cubs, name of Holmes," she continues pointedly, gesturing to Sigur. "He managed to escape long enough to call for help, but by the time I got here-"

"Why didn't you call it in?" Bond inquires, interrupting. He's trying to sound stern- _Bless_.

"Yeah," his two mates parrot, singsong, "why didn't you call it in, Legs?"

Inwardly Lexie counts to ten. "It's Christmas Eve," she bites out. "The Circus is deserted- I was the only person there- Or did I miss the bit where you three offered to work?" The men look slightly shamefaced; Once again she gestures to Sigur, whose wounded shoulder she's pressing down on. "Look, we need to get an ambulance before he loses any more blood, and someone needs to apply pressure to Mr. Dunne here's injury too-"

All three of the male agents step away.

"Do we look like nurses to you, Legs?" One of them guffaws.

Lexie rolls her eyes.

Bond does at least have the good grace to look even more chagrined.

"Farquahr," he drawls, nodding to his nearest crony, "fetch that pretty little thing at the door- what was her name? Maggie?- and have her call it in. There's a pay phone at the corner." And he rocks back on his heels, looking pleased with himself.

"Martha can't make it up those stairs," Lexie snaps, "her foot is in plaster, so really, one of you will have to go-"

Fortunately for her however, at that moment (and what a moment to choose!) Sigur Holmes returns to the land of the living. "Go and do it yourself,007," he croaks, "or I'll tell the girls in the cryptography why you were really out for months after that trip to Bangkok."

Lexie is forced to smother a laugh at how horrified Bond looks.

"You- You wouldn't!" Farquhar looks aghast. _Such manly secrets, his expression seems to say, are_ _ **sacred.**_

Holmes grits his teeth against a wave of pain. "Try me," he says. Another wave of pain hits. "Seriously. Try me, in this state. Now get a move on, chop, chop, and do as the lady says."

And, somewhat annoyingly, now a _man_ is telling them to do it, all three (after a look at Bond) hop to and start sorting the mess out.

Holmes lets out a string of the most polite-sounding expletives imaginable and Lexie looks down at him in worry.

"How did we get this far as a species?" He mutters. He looks up at Lexie, pain in his eyes, and tries to smile, apparently recognizing her worry. "But then, it's not the first time I've thought that. I've three sisters in the service- And you, agent, have the patience of a saint."

Lexie feels a warm flutter of… something go off inside her at his words. It only intensifies as their eyes meet and suddenly, why suddenly she is rather aware of how handsome the man before her is. She hadn't noticed before, what with the blood and the shooting and such.

She is also suddenly aware that he is the only member of the Circus thus far who has referred to her as _agent_ without being prompted.

The thought makes the fluttering sensation worse.

"Yes, well," she says, trying to regain her aplomb, "I _am_ rather exceptional."

Holmes smile is bright. "That you, are, agent, that you are."

And then, as might have been expected, he once again passes out, leaving Lexie to deal with Stick Dunnes' second escape attempt (she shoots his other shoulder, this time) and the three little Bondlings' attempts at organization. _They are, as expected, atrocious._ But through it all, she finds herself smiling, looking forward to the next time she meets Sigur Holmes- Hopefully when he's not bleeding-

Martha shoots her a knowing look as she and the ambulance crew pull Holmes out of the Red Room, trying their best not to jostle him.

"Knew you was clever," Martha mutters, and despite herself, Lexie blushes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says stiffly, something which prompts the younger woman to laugh.

"Course you don't," she snickers, making even Lexie smile.

The fact that she tells Bond to, "get bent," as he's leaving only makes Lexie smile even more…

* * *

'And _that,"_ Lexie exclaims loudly, "is how I met Will's father." She grins, taking another sip of her baileys. "Of course, it took me quite some time to get my thumb out and actually do something about it, but then-" Her eyes dart to Sherlock and he looks away- "sometimes the greatest minds are remarkably slow when it comes to love."

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock can feel the tips of his ears turning pink.

Molly lets out a sigh of appreciation, her own eyes sparkling. "That's so romantic," she says wistfully. In the low lights from the fire, Sherlock can't help but notice how lovely she looks. "And you knew from the first? That Sigur was the one?"

For some reason a shadow crosses her expression.

It makes Sherlock's stomach twist; he knows what she's thinking of.

 _The memory of That Bloody Phone Call and That Bloody Confession stretches taut between them, inescapable as Sherrinford fortress. Inescapable as all the hurt Sherlock knows he has caused._

"I did," Mummy says, and as if noticing his discomfort, she reaches under the table and pats Sherlock's knee comfortingly. "I knew from that moment, of course I did. But it still took me about five years of our just being friends and working together for me to accept it."

Again her eyes slide to Sherlock. Again he looks away. She shrugs.

"Sometimes knowing a thing and being ready to do something about it are two separate things," she says quietly.

A silence stretches out, Sherlock, Molly and Mummy apparently lost in their own thoughts.

It's interrupted suddenly when Mummy gives an exaggerated yawn and stands up. Stretches. "Well," she announces, "I must say, I am done for. I think I shall head up to bed and keep Daddy company."

Her tone drips with innuendo and Sherlock looks at her, pretending to be aghast.

His expression is softened somewhat when he hears Molly's appreciative little giggle. "Off you go," Molly says. "Sherlock and I will clean up, won't we, Sherlock?"

It's on the tip of the detective's tongue to refuse but then he catches the sweet, slightly devilish look in Molly's eyes and he nods. "Of course," he says, wondering what the hell he's playing at? _He has a reputation to maintain,dammit!_ "Have to do something to say thank you for the food and all that-" His habit of cheekiness tugs at him- "after all, you and Daddy aren't getting any younger…"

With a laugh, Mummy swiftly clips him around the ear. "Blasphemy!" She says, and despite himself, Sherlock smiles. His eyes meet Molly's and once again that… something flutters in his chest. "How you put up with this boy of mine, Molly, I'll never know," Mummy is saying and once again Molly giggles.

Once again Sherlock feels his ears turn pink.

"Yes, well," I am rather nicer to Molly than I am to you, Mummy," he says. A smile tugs at his lip. "She is, after all, rather less terrifying than you."

Molly and Mummy both guffaw at that one. "Give her time, darling," Mummy says. "She hasn't had my chance to practice, yet."

And with that she winks at Molly and sails out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and the younger woman still laughing, the fire throwing shadows as it burns merrily in the grate. The lights from the Christmas tree twinkling like starlight.

A… softness settles between them.

"Yes, well," Sherlock says, suddenly, mortifyingly aware that he is now alone with Molly, probably for the first time since That Phone Call. "Shouldn't we get on with things?"

He clears his throat, turning his gaze to the carpet.

"Yes," Molly says distractedly. "Yes, I rather think we should…"

Which is when Sherlock realizes that he's standing under the mistletoe. It's also when he realizes just how close to him he's allowed Molly to get. He can practically feel her breathing. Can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

 _Suddenly everything, everything seems utterly, wonderfully_ _ **still**_ _._

A beat.

"Sherlock…" Molly says softly, "Sherlock, why do you think your Mother told us that story?" She takes a deep breath, then looks up at him from beneath her lashes. Her eyes flick to the mistletoe, then back to him. "Do you- That is, is she under the impression that-"

"She knows that I'm absolutely gaga over you," he says, and it's funny, he doesn't remember giving himself permission to _think_ that, let alone say it.

 _Huh_ , his mind thinks. _Fancy that._

"Huh," his voice says, "fancy that."

Now that it's spoken aloud though, he knows it's absolutely true.

Seeing Molly's look- he clarifies, "didn't mean to say that out loud." He clears his throat and Molly's eyes widen, her cheeks pinking once again. She licks her lips and it feels electric. _She really is awfully close,_ Sherlock can't help but think.

"Does that mean you're sorry you did?" She asks, and her voice is breathless, her body mere inches from his, her eyes as bright and wide as a galaxy-

Sherlock means to tell her no, but before he can she crosses the space between them and kisses him.

He feels the shock- the pleasure of it- go off inside him, and suddenly he finds it hard to breathe.

Rather than focus on that, though, he reaches out and wraps his arms around her. Pulls her flush against him. Her mouth is on his and her arms are around him and suddenly, suddenly, suddenly there is nowhere in the world he would rather be.

When they pull apart they're both staring at each other. Wide-eyed. Wondering.

Neither of them, however, regret it. That's made clear as soon as they reach for one another again…

* * *

Up in bed Lexie snuggles into Sigur, smiling in the dark as she notes the lack of sounds coming from the kitchen.

 _Whatever they're doing down there,_ she thinks smugly, _they're certainly not cleaning up…_

The next morning she'll come down to a kitchen which looks like a bomb hit it and a notable lack of her progeny.

It will be noon before Molly and Will leave his old room, hand in hand and starry-eyed, the former contrite at the mess and the latter delighted with himself for what he got up to last night.

They hold hands at the breakfast table as Daddy serves them scrambled eggs and soldiers, and Lexie is delighted to note that Will's smile is almost as large as her own.


End file.
